


within us coming together (around us falling apart)

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Killer Croc had kind of freaked GQ out at first. But then Croc saved his life, and he figured he needed to do the guy one better than just letting him sit in prison alone with nobody visiting. Not like that could possibly get complicated on him or anything.Right?





	within us coming together (around us falling apart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hecate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/gifts).



> Your prompt for this ship was perfect, Hecate, and I just couldn't resist it—I hope very much that you enjoy this! :D
> 
> Title adapted from the poem [Song of the Shattering Vessels](http://writersalmanac.org/episodes/20170704/), which I realize sounds super pretentious but it reminds me SO MUCH of Suicide Squad. I don't even know what to tell you.

 

 

**before.**

Killer Croc had kind of freaked GQ out at first.

Working with Flag meant weird shit. GQ knew that. _Everybody_ knew that. But there was weird shit, and then there was these guys. And GQ figured he could probably handle a chick with a creepy-ass giggle, and some dude with a skull tattooed on his face, and a guy with a shitload of tiny guns strapped to his wrists.

But that was because at the end of the day, they were all still _people_. And Croc? Strapped to that rack thing with a muzzle tight over his face, scales gleaming, freaky lizard eyes blinking sideways?

He was something else, man. And there was some little shrieking thing in the back of GQ's head, some tiny ancient mammal hindbrain that remembered scurrying around trying not to get eaten by dinosaurs, that wouldn't let GQ forget it. Like, _predator, predator, RIGHT THERE_ , hyperaware, always trying to work out where Croc was and what he was doing, what he was looking at, whether he was about to come up behind GQ and snap his fucking neck.

Except it didn't stay that way.

GQ wasn't expecting it to change like it did, but—hell, it was hard to stay scared of a guy that deep down once you saw him lose his lunch when a chopper ride got a little bumpy. And by the time they were closing in on the end of that whole whacked-out fucked-up adventure? After seeing Croc tear through those weird thralled soldiers without blinking, it was practically a _comfort_ to dive into that flooded tunnel and know Croc was in there waiting.

Fucking opposite day: up was down, black was white, Midway City had been taken over by a goddamn goddess; and instead of telling him to tear off in the other direction screaming, something in GQ's gut actually settled, crawling down into that black water with a killer fucking crocodile-man.

Unreal.

And it should have scared the shit out of GQ when more of those creepy fuckers swarmed up out of the dark and went right for Croc. But he'd felt them pass in the water and turned, saw their shiny black hands wrap across Croc's scales, and wanted to—what?

Hadn't made sense, even to GQ. Yeah, okay, it wasn't the sort of thing that could sit right with him, leaving a man behind—even a crocodile-man. But Croc could handle himself against those things, way better than GQ could, and they were all about to fucking die anyway. So it was stupid to hesitate, right? But GQ had.

And then Croc yelled at him to go, and he got his head screwed on straight and went. Got the charge set up, and when Flag told him to punch it, he took a deep breath, mentally kissed himself goodbye, and punched it.

A foot away and one fucking second on the clock: he should have been toast, not even enough ashes to scatter. But just as he started to push the detonator, he felt one big wide scaley-scrapey hand wrap around his ankle in the water. Croc had tugged him down so fast his dive-mask had come right off his head, had wrapped around him like one giant reptilian blast shield and held on while everything—everything, the ceiling, the walls, the fucking _water_ —exploded.

GQ couldn't remember a whole hell of a lot after that. Had Croc pulled him out of the water right then? Or had it been somebody else, after it was all over? Had Flag been there? It was hard to say. But he remembered Croc's grip, Croc hanging onto him so tight while the water bloomed orange and boiled around them, shrugging off chunks of hurtling rubble that would probably have caved GQ's head in if they'd hit him.

So: Killer Croc had kind of freaked GQ out, once upon a time. But then he saved GQ, and saved the world.

And GQ figured that meant he owed the guy.

 

 

**first visit.**

Waller hadn't shot GQ in the head after Midway, which probably meant he had the clearance to visit Croc if he wanted to. And since he owed the guy and all, he had no excuse not to try.

Pretty much everybody gave him a funny look, from the guys at the gate checking ID to the guys inside who escorted him to the right cell block. Apparently Killer Croc didn't get all that many visitors.

He also apparently didn't get that many people trying to make particular arrangements for him. But GQ knew how to get shit done.

Croc had to hear them coming, the tromp of all those boots down the corridor toward his cell. On the lower level, even, because they weren't exactly going to drop GQ down the feeding-tunnel on a hook.

And yeah, okay, on the whole long way down that hallway, GQ had some second thoughts. And then he was outside the bars, finally, but Croc didn't even look up, which made for some third and fourth thoughts; and by the time one of the escort guys had warily rattled the cell open, GQ was up to like seventh thoughts at least.

But: he owed the guy.

So he stepped inside and cleared his throat. "Uh, hey."

It didn't actually look so bad in here, really. Yeah, okay, it was sort of a sewer; but there was a raised section to one side with a couch, and an inset part of the wall that evidently served as a shelf. And Croc still wasn't looking at GQ, but that was because his eyes were fixed on—a mounted TV?

"Croc?" GQ tried, and that got him a glance, one flat unreadable look from those snake-eyes.

"Hm," Croc said.

"I, uh, I brought you some meat," GQ said, and fuck, that sounded like some kind of half-assed pickup line. Jesus. "Like, to eat." That wasn't better. "Like, dead stuff, it's—it would've been steak if I hadn't gotten to it. Raw. Figured you'd like that."

"Hm," Croc said.

GQ cleared his throat again. He really hadn't thought this through. As if Croc ought to be happy to see him—probably all this was doing was reminding Croc he wasn't going to get out of here unless something else happened that had a chance of ending the world.

"What's that you're watching?" GQ managed, because he was going to make a goddamn effort here if it killed him. Croc had saved his life; GQ could afford to stand around making a jackass out of himself for the guy. Maybe Croc would at least get a laugh out of it later, after GQ was gone.

"TV," Croc said.

"Nice," GQ said, inane. "You—get a lot of channels, down here?"

And that got him another glance, quick flicker of those sideways eyelids. "All the ones I want to watch," Croc said.

"Awesome. Well, I'll—I guess I'll leave you to it, then," GQ fumbled. "Enjoy the steak, and—yeah. Good seeing you."

Jesus. What a fucking nightmare. GQ cursed under his breath at himself and turned around; the escort guys had headed on down the corridor, but a bang on the bars and they'd come back, and then he could get out of here.

Which he should have been glad about, and there really was no reason for him to find himself blurting back over his shoulder, "You—mind if I come by again?"

And finally Croc looked at him for real: not a flicker, not a glance, but the steady weight of those weird pale eyes, fixed right on GQ's face. Just that, for a long moment. And then Croc shrugged those massive shoulders and said, "Eh. Not like I can stop you."

Which wasn't exactly encouraging; but then again, it was Croc. He wasn't going to feed GQ any polite passive-aggressive bullshit. If he wanted GQ to fuck off, he'd say so.

And he hadn't. So. So, okay then.

"Okay then," GQ said. "See you."

 

 

**second visit.**

"So. This is what you do, huh?"

"Yeah."

GQ eyed the water uncertainly. "How deep's that go, anyway?"

"Deep enough."

"They clean it out? Got a—filter or something?"

That got him a glance, fucked if he knew why. "Or something."

"Right. Sure," GQ said, and then cleared his throat. Felt like that was all he did in here: say stupid shit, clear throat, repeat. "Doing all right, then?"

Croc took a moment to think about it—or maybe just to remind himself that eating GQ alive would probably add time to his sentence. "Could be worse," he rumbled eventually, which, yeah. Fair enough.

"Yeah," GQ said, and then thought: what the hell. What was he doing trying to make Croc _talk_ to him? Like that was ever anything Croc had shown signs of enjoying. He was trying to find a way to pay the guy back, not torture him. "Okay if I watch with you for a bit?"

Croc shrugged, which GQ figured wasn't a no. He could even kind of see the TV from over here, and it had to be sort of nice having somebody to watch it with, right? Or at least different, and anything different was probably good when you were stuck staring at the same four walls from the same damp couch day in and day out.

Half an hour and then he'd take off, and if Croc didn't seem to mind too much, he'd suggest it again next time. GQ had always liked having a gameplan.

He was all ready to settle in, and it honestly hadn't even occurred to him to care about getting comfortable. He was a SEAL, he worked with _Rick Flag_ —it wasn't raining in here, or on fire, or under six feet of mud, and nobody was dead, dying, or shooting at him. But after a minute or two watching the TV, he got that little prickly sense of eyes on him, and he glanced up and found Croc looking back at him.

No blinking, this time—GQ was starting to think Croc didn't need to do it as often as most people. He gave GQ that flat steady stare, and then all at once his gaze flickered away and he moved. The effect was almost seismic; he was just so _big_ , and up 'til now, this time and last time, he'd been settled on that couch like—well, like a crocodile, lying so still it could make you think it was a log, and you wouldn't know better 'til it had teeth in you.

"Can't see the TV from over there."

"I can see okay," GQ said automatically, because he mostly could.

But Croc wasn't buying it. Another long unblinking look, and then he said again, slowly, like maybe GQ hadn't caught it the first time, "Can't see the TV from over there."

He'd sat up, shifted over—and he was big, but so was the couch: there was a GQ-sized space and then some left over.

GQ hesitated. Not because he was scared. He was over that shit. Just because it was—well, it was Croc's. This was the only space the guy had in the world, this cell and this couch and that water, and what had even made GQ think it was a good idea to come barging in and making him share it once every couple of weeks, anyhow—

"Sit your ass down or get out," Croc said.

GQ laughed, startled, and then walked over; and Croc looked like maybe he was startled, too, like some part of him had been expecting GQ to take him up on that _get out_. "And miss this here cultural enrichment?" GQ said, gesturing to all that widescreen BET. Fuck, this TV might even be bigger than GQ's.

"Whatever," Croc said.

He watched GQ sit down without shifting away, and even relaxed a little into the couch. And if he minded when GQ relaxed enough next to him that they were bumping knees, well, he didn't say anything about it.

 

 

**eighth visit.**

Turned out a whole lot of TV was almost as good for getting comfortable with somebody as watching them toss their cookies. In a way that kind of snuck up on a guy, too. GQ didn't even realize he'd been trying to work up to something until they hit a commercial break one day and he found himself saying, "So the thing is, I haven't thanked you."

Croc grunted and didn't look away from BET. "What for?"

GQ raised his eyebrows. "Uh, gee, I don't know, what do you think?"

Croc shrugged, and still didn't look over.

"For saving my ass, man," GQ said bluntly. "You have to know—I would've fried down there if it weren't for you. Come on. You have to know that."

"Whatever," Croc said, and turned away to crack open one of the beers he had up on the wall-shelf.

And GQ maybe should have left at that, except he couldn't. He _couldn't_. He still remembered the parts that mattered. Couldn't forget them: that long, long, long split second, watching his own hand press flat against the housing around the charge, staring up at that blazing red 00:00:01 and knowing, _knowing_ , how fucked he was. Knowing that after surviving every other freaky thing that day had thrown at him, there he was, about to blow himself the fuck up. And then, just as he pushed, that grip on his foot. The rush outside him, the speed and the water and the heat; and the rush inside, sudden certainty that Croc had him, that if Death was still aiming to come for GQ then it was about to get itself one hell of a black eye.

He'd thought about it, going into that water—how it was a weird kind of comfort, security, to think Croc was in there with him. But he'd _felt_ it when the charge went: Croc wrapped around him, all over him, covering him, like any damn thing in Midway City that wanted to kill GQ would have to get through Croc to do it.

And it wasn't like GQ'd never had anybody watching his back before. He was a SEAL, for fuck's sake. He knew what it was like to know you'd die for somebody who'd die for you. But that was a deal, a handshake: mutual. The last thing he'd said to Croc before they went in the water had been _We got this_. Not exactly welcoming him to the team, was it, practically shouting _We don't need you_ , _you aren't one of us_.

And Croc had to have known it; and then he'd saved GQ's ass anyway.

"No, man," GQ said aloud. "I'm serious. That was—you had less than no reason to go to that kind of trouble for me, but you did, and I'm alive because of it. Yeah, okay, so you've done some fucked-up shit and you're a crocodile-man. I don't give a damn. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, and I want you to know that I know that. I want you to know that that matters, and that it means something, and that I won't forget it. Okay?"

He didn't know what he expected Croc to say. Probably not _yes_ , that was too agreeable. Maybe just a shrug; maybe a grunt; or maybe he'd say something about how in that case GQ owed him a few more steak dinners.

But Croc didn't do any of that. He just sat there, eyes fixed on the TV. And then he tilted the beer back and gulped at it, and it was—there was something about that motion that caught GQ's eye, like it was a little too quick somehow, covering something up.

But no fucking way had GQ managed to make _Killer Croc_ nervous.

"Nobody ever worried about me," Croc said at last. It came out so low and muffled it took GQ a second to even hear it right.

And what the hell did that mean? "Man, I'm not _worried_ about you. If you think this is some kind of sneaky-ass psych eval, like somebody sent me in here to check up on your emotional health or some shit—"

"No," Croc said. "I mean—before. Nobody ever worried about me before."

GQ stared at him. That really hadn't cleared anything up.

Croc glanced at him, quick flicker of those flat eyes, and then away, and took another swig of the beer. "You turned around," he said, slow.

"When I—in the water?"

"Yeah," Croc said. "I ain't stupid, bro. You had shit to do. But you turned around."

GQ blinked.

It hadn't felt like much to speak of at the time. He hadn't even done anything—Croc had shouted for him to go, and it had been easy enough to tell what he was saying, underwater or not. And if GQ hadn't listened to him and gone, how much would he have helped? Croc was made to kill stuff underwater. About the best GQ could have done was distract those critters for fifteen seconds while they killed him, and maybe the extra time would've given Croc an advantage; that was it. Didn't seem like enough to put across the scales from Croc pulling him clear of a fiery death.

But apparently Croc thought it was.

"Nobody ever worried about me before," Croc said again, twisting the beer bottle around in his hands. "So you don't owe me shit. We're even."

"Yeah?" GQ said.

"Yeah," Croc said.

"Well—okay, man," GQ said. "If you say so."

He meant it to be easy, conversational, because it didn't seem right to him but he didn't want to argue the point if it meant that much to Croc. And he—he _had_ been worried, even if he'd never have thought of it that way himself. Seemed stupid to try to claim otherwise.

But after he said it there was something weird in the air. Croc wasn't talking, which was normal. But he was staring at his beer instead of the TV, and not leaning back lazily into the couch the way he usually did. GQ shifted his weight a little, uncertain, and glanced up at BET and then away, and then—motherfucking old habits died motherfucking hard—cleared his throat. He didn't know what the hell was wrong, but giving Croc space tended to work out pretty well most of the time. GQ knew the value of a tactical retreat.

"So—see you next time, then?"

And somehow that by itself did something. Croc's head jerked up and he looked at GQ hard for a second, so intent that GQ felt himself get a little hot in the ears. And then he turned away and said, "Yeah, sure," and GQ nodded and went to bang on the bars, and tried not to spend any time thinking about why his heart was suddenly pounding.

 

 

**eleventh visit.**

It wasn't a thing. GQ just—whatever. They had their shit straight now: nobody owed anybody anything, but GQ kept bringing the heftiest raw steak cuts he could turn up and Croc kept letting GQ sit on his couch and watch BET with him, and it was possible they were even friends. Sort of.

Which meant it definitely wasn't a thing. Because how stupid would GQ have to be to fuck all that up? Half his job was making risk assessments on the fly, and with a lot less to go on than he had now; and this? Not worth it.

It was just—it was kind of hard to shake, that was all. Sort of a familiar rut to be in, helplessly cataloging every move Croc made, except this time it was a totally different part of GQ's hindbrain insisting on it, and for a totally different reason.

Or, well. Mostly different. It was still about Croc's shoulders, his eyes, the rippling flow of scales along the angles of his face, jaw, throat—just coming at it another way, less morbid car-crash fascination and more—

Yeah. Anyway. Not a thing.

"Hey."

"Yeah? What?" GQ said, blinking.

Croc didn't really have eyebrows to raise, but he could still sort of shift the ridges on his forehead around in a way that came off looking skeptical. "Zoned out."

"No, I—" GQ stole a glance at the TV, and yeah, okay, that was not the same episode of Bernie Mac they'd started out with. "Uh. Maybe a little."

Croc huffed and leaned back a little further into the couch, stretched his legs a little wider, and GQ only just managed to shift away before their thighs could brush.

He did his best to make it look natural, reaching back for a beer; but his stupid motherfucking heart was motherfucking hammering again. Even after he had the beer in hand, and was doing his best to look like the TV had his full attention—was Croc still looking at him? He couldn't be sure, didn't want to check too obviously. Was there any chance Croc could _hear_ it? He tried to think back to the rundown Flag had given them, the profile he'd memorized before Midway. Hearing had been better than human-normal, he was pretty sure, but the assessment had been inexact. What had been the notation? _Subject uncooperative. High margin for error._ And there had been another note in there, about smell—fuck. Fuck, surely Croc wouldn't be able to _smell_ it if GQ—

"Dinnertime."

"What?" GQ said, jerking.

Croc was staring at him again, eyes hooded and unreadable. "You always head out before dinnertime," he said, and hit the remote so the time came up in the corner of the TV—and shit, he was right, GQ had already stayed almost twenty minutes longer than usual.

"Right, right, sorry," GQ said, standing and scratching at the back of his neck. Croc looked at him and didn't quite smile—showed teeth, sort of, pointy and shining, like he was already thinking about that steak; and GQ's heart jackknifed with a thump.

Croc's eyes sharpened—so maybe he could hear it after all. Shit.

"See you next time," GQ blurted, jerking back, and then went and banged on the bars maybe a little more urgently than usual.

 

 

**fifteenth visit.**

GQ was running late.

In his defense, the mission had run over first—way over, and in a way that had involved needing to cross an extra mile and a half to reach evac at basically a dead sprint. GQ had managed to stay awake just long enough to shower before collapsing without even making it under the covers, and then he'd woken up and hadn't even been sure which _day_ it was until he figured out where in the bathroom he'd left his watch.

Sounded like some kind of punchline, being late to get to prison. He'd have to remember to tell Croc that; maybe it would get a snort out of him.

But when the cell door finally rattled shut behind GQ, Croc didn't seem like he was in the mood for jokes. He was standing, not on the couch, and the TV was off; he looked weird, tense. "Late," he said.

"Uh, yeah," GQ agreed, wincing. "Sorry about that—"

"Not my problem, bro," Croc said, and then tilted his head back and sniffed once, twice. "Your problem. It's time."

For a single blistering second, GQ's head piled up with all the wrong things; he sucked in a sharp breath and felt heat prickle up the back of his neck, and there went his fucking heart again—and then he realized what Croc actually meant and barked out an unsteady laugh. Just dinnertime again; Croc could probably smell the meat, wherever they were hauling it out of storage for him. That was all.

But it was too late: Croc's gaze had snapped back to GQ, and he didn't look happy.

Shit.

If Croc had heard anything that seemed weird to him any of the other times, he hadn't said anything about it. So GQ had figured he was safe. But the expression on Croc's face wasn't really supporting that interpretation right now.

"Fuck you," Croc said, and there were the teeth again. "Get out."

"No, wait, just let me—"

But Croc hadn't been finished. "That freak you out?" he rumbled, stalking one step closer, another. GQ hoped belatedly that his escorts had booked it back down the hall, and weren't about to taze Croc for menacing him, because that really wasn't going to help. And—wait, what?

"What?" GQ said.

"Want a good look?" Croc growled, low as thunder, halfway across the distance between them. "Free tickets to the freak show? Fuck you—" and then he went the rest of the way in one of those sudden crocodilian rushes, a burst of movement that ended with GQ up against the bars, Croc's fists in his jacket and his teeth rattling in his head. "You want a front-row seat—"

"What?" GQ said again, and then finally fucking caught a clue. "Wait—to watch you eat? You think I'm scared?"

"I _know_ it," Croc snarled, leaning in, and yeah, that was all it was going to take; GQ laughed in his face, half hysteria, because if this wasn't simultaneously the best and worst moment to get a boner—

And there it was: Croc hesitated, maybe startled by the laugh, and then his eyelids twitched and he breathed in deep, deep. His knuckles flexed against GQ's chest; and GQ stood there and tried not to think about how easily Croc could probably pick him up, how little GQ himself would be able to do about it if he did.

"Like that ain't the exact same shit," Croc rumbled, eyes narrowed. "You want to see what I got, bro? Never had a good look at a crocodile's junk—"

" _No_ ," GQ said, and then realized that probably sounded like the wrong answer, and to the wrong question. "I mean, yes, yeah, I'm—I want in your pants," and that wasn't really a secret at this point, so it was weirdly easy to say compared to what came after it: "but not because I—it's—"

Fuck.

When had talking ever been the right idea with Croc, anyway? Never, GQ decided.

He didn't want to risk the teeth if Croc was still pissed. So when he lurched up against the weight of Croc's fists on him, braced half against the cell door, one elbow stinging where he'd scraped it on the wall, he didn't go for Croc's mouth—just the side of the face, the jaw. Croc tasted weird, in a good way; damp and a little salty, and fuck, GQ was all in anyway, right? So he went ahead and opened his mouth and just _licked_ , dragged his tongue right down the funny rippling line of larger scales crawling down toward Croc's shoulder—

"The fuck," Croc said, and shoved at him—not hard, just enough to rattle the bars a little, and if he wasn't throwing GQ across the room then GQ was already set to call this one a win.

"Look," GQ said. "If I wanted an adventure with monster junk, there's plenty of it out there these days, right? I mean, shit, I'm spoiled for choice. Can't spit without hitting a dead god or some brassed-off witch-queen of the damned.

"That's not what I'm coming here for, man. That's not why I'm back in this little DIY sewer of yours every chance I get, making friends with the mildew on that fucking couch and drinking all your beers. You can't really think that's why."

Croc stared at him.

GQ stared back.

Croc tilted his head a little, lazy, and blinked that sideways blink. "You got interesting taste, pretty boy."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," GQ said.

Croc's gaze flickered up, down—paused there, while GQ shut his eyes and swallowed hard and resisted the pointless urge to cover his dick up; and then the next thing GQ knew, he was sliding against the bars. Up, not down.

"Ain't you just full of surprises," Croc murmured, from much, much closer, and GQ gasped and squirmed against that steady unbreakable grip and heard himself breathlessly agree.

 

 

**after.**

So, yeah. Killer Croc had kind of freaked GQ out, once upon a time. They did everything totally fucking backwards, saved the world together first and didn't get to know each other until a whole lot later, but whatever.

It all worked out in the end. Or at least GQ was pretty sure neither of them had any complaints.

(And Flag could make all the jokes about conjugal visits he wanted; crocodile junk turned out to be totally awesome.)

 

 


End file.
